


Hawk

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 18:18:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11423499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Thranduil tries again for Fëanor’s interest.





	Hawk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ephers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephers/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for ephers’ “Feanor/Thranduil - Bird, both preferably non-angst/non-hostile” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/162565904960/prompt-list-3). AU where everyone lives and can come and go to Valinor.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or The Hobbit or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Though it’s been centuries since his last visit to the West, Thranduil remembers everything with perfect clarity: the white sand of the beaches, the towering halls of marble, even every twist and turn within the grand estate of the greatest elf ever known. Most of all, Thranduil remembers _Fëanor_ , the king of legends, of song, who first journeyed east and conquered all the world. Some in Middle Earth still revere him, others curse his name, but Thranduil, then only a young prince, had the good fortune to actually meet the fabled warrior. And every night since, when Thranduil’s closed his eyes at night, that handsome face is the one he sees. He’s never seen anyone else with such _fire_ in their eyes. He’s had lovers come and go, sampled more than his fair share both from his own subjects and abroad, and none have come even close to the glory of their overlord. Thranduil’s dreamed of this day for as long as he can remember.

He strolls now down the corridors, needing no servants to guide him, neither the palace staff nor his own guards. This is a private matter, and for once, he’s left his contingent aside. He proclaimed to cross the sea for political negotiations, but, in truth, _this_ is all he wanted. 

He reaches Fëanor’s Wing with a hitch of anticipation. He considers heading first to Fëanor’s bedchambers, perhaps laying out amongst the sheets to set himself on display. But surely Fëanor won’t have retired yet. Their ‘official’ meeting is still three hours away. But he won’t be off preparing; Fëanor needs no advisors, no studying, for he’s already seen and known it all. 

Thranduil wanders through the tall chambers, peeking into every open door and not yet daring to knock at any of the closed ones. Then, at last, he passes an open balcony, and he finds, to his quickened breath, the slender silhouette of Fëanor against the railing.

Thranduil doesn’t announce himself. He sweeps forward at as measured a pace as he can manage, though every last detail of this sets his skin aflame. Fëanor’s robes are crimson, interwoven with strands of gold and glittering with a mass of gems, his dark hair streaming out in silken waves behind him, caught in the midday breeze. His skin is dark compared to Thranduil’s, his hands, the most skilled the world has ever known, are placed delicately atop the railing. His attention is focused upwards, where the birds are swirling, and though he must hear Thranduil’s footsteps, he doesn’t turn. 

Right at Fëanor’s side, Thranduil stops. When he still gets no acknowledgement, he tilts up to peer at the swirling creatures overhead. They’re lovely things, long and lithe, wings much greater than any in Middle Earth, even the eagles that used to soar over Thranduil’s woods. Their colouring seems to change in the light, whether they duck beneath the clouds or dance free in Arien’s rays. Thranduil murmurs, “They are beautiful. More so than those across the sea.”

“They are Maiar,” Fëanor explains, and the words hardly matter, because the _voice_ itself is what rumbles through Thranduil’s body, bringing a flush already to his cheeks. He’s longed so much for those deep, dulcimer tones, whispering lewd pleas and biting orders into his ears. It’s every bit as sensual and quietly commanding as he remembers; he believes all the stories, that Fëanor could seduce the Valar themselves. Thranduil knows he was never an intended target of that seduction.

But he fell within its spell all the same, and he’s tired of living without. He stares unabashedly at every sharp angle of Fëanor’s chiseled form, most of all the light in his eyes. He wears no crown, though Thranduil’s autumn one sits atop his head, his robes of the finest silver. He’d meant to come to impress, though in Fëanor’s presence, he remembers how little any such signs of stature measure up to one so naturally dominant. Thranduil almost feels a child again, in awe of a personal idle.

Finally, Fëanor retires his gaze. He falls from the heavens to look on Thranduil’s, and Thranduil stiffens but stands strong under it. Fëanor eyes his face first, then trails down his tall body and the blond hair he’s grown straight and long. When Fëanor finds Thranduil’s hands on the railing, he studies each elaborate ring, then, last of all, lifts to the crown. Thranduil’s always been proud of all his decorations, devised of his own woods to reflect each season, but now he feels almost small before Fëanor, his petty circlet of branches only a tiny trinket. One of the rings Thranduil wears was wrought by Fëanor himself, a gift when Thranduil was too young to fit it properly, and it’s always been his favourite. He remembers acutely begging Fëanor to show him a Silmaril.

Now his desire has taken better form, and he desires _things_ not nearly so much as company. He’s caressed the ring many time, kissed it, worn it while he stroked himself, but only because it made him think of _Fëanor_. He hopes to garner more on this visit, ones that will reflect the blaze of Fëanor’s eyes. 

When Fëanor’s finished his inspection, he idly drawls, “You have grown much since you were last here, Thranduil. You were only a child in your father’s arms then.” Thranduil’s jaw tightens, though he says nothing—he was hardly _that_ young, and it hurts to know that that’s how Fëanor saw him. “You have become a man.”

Thranduil smiles thinly. Sometimes, he feels ancient among his own people, and it’s strange to remember that to Fëanor, one of the first, he’ll always be a _child_. It’s hardly how he wants to be seen. He replies, “I was no infant, but close to my majority.” Fëanor tilts his head, perhaps indicating assent, and Thranduil carefully adds, “And I have not given up on the interest I held then, for which you proclaimed me too young. ...I ask again, Fëanor, High King of all our people... what of me now?”

Fëanor looks at Thranduil for a long moment, during which Thranduil’s breath holds, but he doesn’t back down. He knows he’s put himself on the line, and he’ll hate to be sent away without claiming what he came for, but he’s willing to fight to show his devotion. It’s irksome how calm Fëanor’s fierce demeanor is, but slowly, Fëanor’s bow lips stretch into a smile. His eyes wander Thranduil’s body again, this time more obvious, lingering in intimate places that had before gone quickly. Slowly, Fëanor muses, “You have grown quite pleasing to look at, I will grant you that. But I have seen much of this world, and my heart is not easily held.”

A great weight seems to lift off Thranduil’s shoulders, because that sounds more like a challenge than rejection, and Thranduil hadn’t at all expected this to be easy. Thranduil sucks in a breath, then takes one step closer, all that’s left between them, so the two of them are close enough as to be nearly touching. It’s telling that Fëanor neither steps back nor orders Thranduil to do so. Seduction has always come easily to Thranduil, if not nearly to _Fëanor’s_ level, but for this he pours in great effort, needing heat to match his prey. He lets his lashes fall half closed, tilts his head so as to speak better into Fëanor’s ear, and he purrs low and throaty, “Perhaps, then, we might start with your bed. I think I might claim your heart from there.”

A long grin stretches across Fëanor’s face. He drawls, “I invite you to try.” And he does nothing to resist when Thranduil leans in to kiss him.


End file.
